The disagreement was about land. And it was about trusting Jake.
When Amy returned to the kitchen, risking a rebuff, she asked, “Is this land deal you’re talking about important?”
Amy did not reply.
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
Amy relented. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. It’s just that I’ve never heard you all talk so much. You work so hard. You’re all usually so tired.”
“Are we?” Amy was brusque. “I told you. The picking …”
“It’s just … I’m sorry. It’s … it’s nice to hear you talking together …”
“It’s family business, Gail.”
Resentful, she made the final pot of tea.
Amy added to the pile of dishes. “I’m sorry if I’m short, dear.
Nobody’s themselves until the picking’s over.”
“It seems to go on forever.”
“Poor child.” Amy was scathingly sarcastic. “You’ve only been here a blink! Believe me, it’s only just started.”
“Is it always like this?”
“Like what specifically?”
“Work, just work; there hardly ever seems to be any fun.”
“You’ll have to ask Jake and Ryan about fun.” Amy was uncharacteristically unpleasant. “The fun, if that’s what you call it, Gail, was last time you were here.”
“That’s not what I call fun.”
“No? In that case, dear, I’m sorry you had to see that. I did wonder whether you felt comfortable with it.”
“I wasn’t. I noticed Rick didn’t stay.” She ventured, “Rick’s in a good mood.”
“Do you think so?”
“He’s usually very quiet. I guess he’s been too tired. Since the War …
Amy cut her off. “Aren’t we all.”
It was as it always was. Every time she even hinted at Rick’s war experience, whatever significance it held, Amy closed up. If it had any significance. If she hadn’t grown up with her father’s agony, she’d have left it alone. But she had grown up with it; her entire childhood had been affected by it. Though it didn’t matter because she’d soon be out of here, it still niggled.
Obviously something had happened to Rick too. He was no longer the happy young soldier pictured in the photo taken only a few years ago. War experiences had to be the reason he so vividly reminded her of her father. Ageing too quickly, as her father had done, his sandy hair was already greying and his eyes were too often bleak. Yet, unlike her father, he’d been left with no debilitating illness. Rick was physically fit and strong. Witness the hours he spent in gruelling labour on the farm. But this war had been a different war. Rick could have been a P.O.W, a victim of the Singapore disaster. Or suffered something equally traumatic. If so, why wouldn’t his mother admit it? And why did he sometimes inspire fear? Even in his mother.
The tea made, she took it in to the men.
“Thank you, Gail,” Rick smiled. “Why don’t you join us?”
“Amy’s waiting …” She hesitated.
“I should get back …”
“The wife’s grateful for your help, love.” Usually gruff and dour, Gus too was unusually friendly. “Most times she’s on her own.”
“Most times, but not always.” Spooning in sugar from the silver bowl, Rick stirred his drink. “Sometimes Phoebe comes down.”
“Your mother works so hard!” She risked a rebuff. “Why don’t you employ inside help? Like the pickers outside?”
“We used to,” Gus mildly observed. “Years ago. These days she reckons she can manage.”
“You had inside help when I was away last year!” Rick slammed his untouched drink onto the saucer; not a drop spilled over.
“Did we?” Gus frowned.
“You know you did! I asked Tom.”
“Are you sure that’s what Tom told you?”
“You had help while I was away. Own up, Dad.”
“Sure, son. But …”
“Did you hear that, Gail!” Rick cried. “They don’t trust me around the help. They can’t risk strangers inside any more.”
“I’m a stranger,” she protested.
“My God!” Rick’s fist thumped the table. “She’s right!”
Amy came from the kitchen. “Rick! That’s enough!”
“It’s okay, Mother,” he laughed. “Gail doesn’t mind, do you Gail?”
It wasn’t okay. Something was seriously askew.
“Don’t worry so much, Mother.” Rick chuckled. “The weather’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
“It’s getting late, Rick,” Amy gently urged. “We’re ready to clear the table. Why don’t you finish your tea?”
Rick reached for his cup. “It’s cold!”
“I’ll pour you a fresh one.” Leaning to take his cup, she brushed his arm.
He grabbed her hand.
“Let her go, Rick,” Amy commanded.
His grip tightened.
“Rick!” Gus rose from his chair.
The strong fingers bit cruelly. His face was without expression.
“Rick, please …” she pleaded. “Let me go …”
“Let her go, Rick.” Amy was near tears.
“Son!” Gus roared.
The painful grip loosened.
Heart thumping, she fell back.
“I don’t bite,” Rick parroted. “I don’t bite. Really, Gail. I don’t bite.”
Amy and Gus did nothing. She dared not move, until, as though responding to some inner command, Rick quietly said, “I really am sorry, Gail.”
“Come along, son.” Gus opened the exit door.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, Dad.”
“Do as you’re told, Rick.”
Amy’s sun-tanned face was drained of colour, her dark eyes unflinching. “Go with your father.”
“It’s okay, Mother.”
“You heard her, son. You need to leave.”
“It’s okay, Dad.”
In the doorway, Gus paused, head to one side, eyes uncertain. “I’m okay, Dad,” Rick reiterated. “Honestly.”
Making up his mind, Gus conceded, “He’ll be all right, Mother.” “I’m not …” Amy shook her head.
“It’s best we leave.” Gus led Amy back to the kitchen.
She was alone with him. Frightened, she started to ease from his side.
Rick touched her hand, but gently. “I’m sorry, Gail. Don’t take any notice.” Paradoxically, fear vanished.
“Truly sorry.” He was very serious. “You mustn’t be frightened.”
“What’s going on, Rick?”
“They’re worried about me.”
“Is it the war? I saw the picture of you in uniform.”
His fist clenched, crushing the starched tablecloth.
“Rick! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
Sweat streaming, he began to convulse.
“Rick.” The familiarity of another’s pain was sickening. Gingerly, afraid to touch him, afraid not to, she eased herself into the chair at his side.
He seemed barely conscious, and certainly not aware of her. Yet the closeness of her body seemed to soothe him. She should call Amy. She could not cry out – even to call his mother. She did nothing.
Slowly, painfully, the shaking stilled. She had no idea of what had happened, or why, or if her closeness had played any part in his recovery.
Uncertain, she began “Should I …?”
Pushing away from the table, he strode towards the exterior door. “Rick.” In the doorway, limned against the night sky, he stopped.
‘Turn around, Rick. Please turn around.’
As though he’d heard, he turned. Desolate eyes, darkly tortured, momentarily held hers; and again emptied.
She started towards him. “I’m so …”
Turning away, he quickly disappeared.
There was no remnant of fear, in its place only sympathy; and a profound sense of union. Or rather, of re-union. Reunio
n with memories of despair.
Not so incomprehensible. Because Rick Campbell had renewed what she could not forget. The agony of another’s pain. Impossibly, in the house of a stranger and in the presence of a stranger she felt at home! But yet … somehow … this was different. Because this stranger had, for a flicker, shared his tortured world. An undisguised sharing which her father, bound by parental constraints, had never done.
Though Rick Campbell could not know that he’d touched unhealed wounds, his troubled spirit had responded. Though fear had surrendered to concern, she hadn’t anticipated it. She was unready for it. It demanded she look into places she was unready to look into, to deal with realities she was unready to face. It demanded response. Collecting the soiled dishes, she carted them to the kitchen.
Amy looked up from the sink. “Everything all right?”
“Why? Shouldn’t it be?”
“You know he had a hard time in the war. He was … he was …”
Amy was crying.
“Please don’t,” she pressed. “You don’t have to tell me.”
The facts had become irrelevant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Everything had changed. She had to get to know Rick. Except there was no time. Maybe this was as it should be. Whatever troubled Rick, intuition was screaming, “Run away.” Self-preservation was warning ‘beware’. Though there was no time to get to know him, there was time enough to grow too close. Already, she was too close. He’d felt it. He’d turned away. As she must. But there’d been a moment, a moment before he’d turned away.
Whatever his future held, the present was evident. Amy’s son was in agony. Confirmation was in his mother’s reaction. In Rick’s presence, Amy was no longer a suavely sophisticated hostess. In her son’s presence she was unpredictable, swinging from anxious parent to terrified child. Because she was frightened for him. Because she feared for his future.
Run away!
As for Gus. A strange man, a recluse – almost. Yet at the dining table there’d been laughter, and joy. Until … until what? She didn’t know. The mood had changed in a blink, for no apparent reason.
Full circle. Better to leave. Far better.
Except …
She must get to know Richard Campbell. Careless of Amy’s need for assistance in the house, she determined to work in the vineyard.
“Just a day or two,” she begged Amy. “You can arrange it. I want to tell Barbara all about it. It’ll be a real new experience.”
Amy reluctantly consented.
With only two days left of her unhappy holiday, she was out on the job. Stronger as a result of the indoors work, she got up early, dressed in top-to-toe protection, and prepared to join the pickers working on the long rows of vines.
“Pickers are paid according to the number of buckets of grapes they fill. You’ll be paid like the others.” Ryan led her past long high-stacked rows of drying grapes, huge vats of preservative chemicals and into the vineyard.
Working along the rows of vines heavy with ripe fruit, the pickers were cutting bunches of grapes and stacking them in square perforated tin buckets. Chugging through narrow lanes between vines, tractors were carting the filled buckets back to the vats.
“I’ll never keep up,” she moaned. “Do I have to go that fast?”
“Flo!” Ryan shouted to the pickers.
A khaki sunhat appeared from under the vines. “You called, Ryan?”
“Got a minute?”
The young woman wearing the sunhat, khaki coveralls and heavy boots, strode to meet them. “This’ll cost you, mate.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” Ryan patted Flo’s khaki behind.
“I mean in cash, stupid!”
Revolted, she blushed.
“Take no notice of him,” Flo grimaced. “The boy’s a pig.”
Ryan grinned. “That’s not what you say when …”
“Time’s money, Ryan. Who’s this?”
“You know bloody well who it is.”
“Right. So what’s the score?”
“Get her started. Show her the ropes.”
“You’re joking!”
“It’ll pay extra. Don’t worry, we’ll see you right. Get her started.
That’s it. Okay?”
“Why me?”
“Do you want the extra money or not?”
“Had any experience, Gail?” Flo quizzed.
She shook her head.
“Got your gear?”
“Sorry …” Ryan gestured to the shed. “I left it …”
“Hang on a sec.” Hurrying to the shed, Flo fetched a knife, demonstrated how to use it and how to fill the buckets.
Confronted by Flo and the sun and the daunting efficiency of the brutal labour, she was already regretting her decision.
Producing a pair of long gloves, Flo advised, “You’ll need these too. Make sure you stay covered up. It’s bloody hot out there. Want to change your mind?”
“Of course not!”
“I can’t promise nothing, mate.” Leaving Ryan, Flo led the way into the sun.
The vines provided little shelter. It was filthy, hot, sticky and unbearably repulsive work. The thick canvas gloves and the cumbersome protection were acutely uncomfortable.
Morning tea was delivered by Amy, who impatiently suggested she’d proved her point and should knock off. She curtly shook her head, listened to the gossip, heard little and understood nothing except the eternal analysis of the weather. Fine weather would continue, the picking would be a success and the Boss would have a new Mercedes this year – not entirely a joke.
Fifteen minutes later she lurched, creaking in every joint, aching in every muscle, back under the vines. Flo and company surged on ahead. Gus and his sons Ryan and Rick, together with Tom and his son Leo, drove the tractors, dipped the full tins in the chemical vats, organised and supervised. Everyone was working to an established pattern. Everyone knew what they were doing and, with a minimum of instructions, did it. Meanwhile the knife grew heavier, the sun hotter, her clothes more cumbersome, her rate of work slower and her distress deeper. She’d have to find another way to get to know Rick Campbell. If she still wanted to.
Lunch. She’d have to give in, admit defeat and go back indoors.
Amy brought sandwiches. “Really Gail, you should call it a day.”
They were expecting her to give in.
“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.” She willed her raw lips to shape each word.
“I don’t think so,” Amy objected. “You look awfully pale.”
She shook her head.
“If anything happens to you …”
“I’m fine!”
“Barbara should have warned me how stubborn you are.”
“I’m fine. Really.” She fought the pain of speech.
“I have to think you know what you’re doing,” Amy frowned. “But please – just make sure you drop it when you’ve had enough.”
Waiting until Amy was out of sight, she set aside the untouched sandwiches, forced down a sip of iced water and lay down to sleep in the shade. The sun moved slowly around the corner of the shed, the workers returned to work, and the island of shade shrank.
“Where’s your mate?” Rick joined the pickers taking their afternoon tea break.
“She left,” Flo answered. “Didn’t even bother to turn up after lunch.
“Anyone see her leave? Ryan? Dad?”
“Last I saw she was too bloody tired to get out of her own way,”
Gus growled. “Must have gone in.”
“I’ll check,” Ryan offered.
“Unreliable cow,” Flo complained. “City soft. Make sure she stays where she belongs tomorrow.”
“Rick!” Racing from behind the shed, Ryan sounded the alarm.
She lay on her back, unconscious. Her unprotected face was burning, her heartbeat tentative.
“Tell Mum! Call the ambulance!”
Flo ran to the house. Carrying Gail between them, Ryan and R
ick followed.
“In here.” Amy ushered them into the bedroom, turned back the sheets, settled her on the bed. “I’ve called Jim.”
“Good idea,” Rick agreed. “It’ll take the ambulance a while.”
“I haven’t phoned the ambulance.” Amy gently removed Gail’s shoes.
“I’ll phone,” Ryan offered.
“No, Ryan.” Amy ordered. “No one will phone the ambulance.”
“But Mum!”
“She’s in good hands.” Amy was adamant. “Jim will be adequate.”
In the evening, when she regained consciousness, a stranger was bending over her.
“Thank God!” Amy rose from the bedside chair.
“Wh …?”
“Don’t try to talk,” Amy urged.
She tried again. “What.”
“Sunstroke, lass.” The man’s hearty voice bounced off the walls of the small room. “You’ve made one hell of a mess of yourself.”
“Home …”
“It’s all right, dear.” Amy held her hand. “We’ll take care of you.”
“Home!” Pain tore her throat.
“Sh … sh …” Amy soothed. “You must listen to Doctor Walker.”
“A damned stupid thing to do.” The doctor was unsympathetic. “What the hell were you thinking of? You should have had more sense. Amy?”
“I told you, Jim. The pickers …”
“They have more to do than baby-sit tourists. Telephone still in the kitchen? I’ll call the hospital.”
“No, Jim,” Amy argued. “No hospital. That’s not necessary.”
“For God’s sake, woman!”
“There’s no need for hospital care. We’ll look after her. She’s not entirely to blame. We should never have let her take the risk. We all feel responsible. She should be with friends.”
“Not so simple, I’m afraid,” Doctor Walker brusquely disagreed. “That face of hers is going to require special care.”
No! She wanted to sit up. She couldn’t move.
“It’ll be all right, Gail,” Amy comforted. “We won’t desert you. You’ll be with us. You’ll be all right. We’re so …”
“Your face is burned, lass,” the doctor interrupted. “Infection is a risk. We’ll admit you immediately.”
“No, Jim. No.” Amy was adamant. “I have to insist. I’ll nurse her. God knows I’ve had the experience.”
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